


Virginia Moon

by glasskites



Category: Foo Fighters
Genre: M/M, Virginia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21844378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasskites/pseuds/glasskites
Summary: It’s 1999, and Dave is tired of people walking out on him. So he decides to buy a house back home in Virginia, hunker down in the basement, and do what he does best: make a fucking record.
Relationships: Dave Grohl/Taylor Hawkins
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Virginia Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sailorhathor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sailorhathor/gifts).



After the first week or so, someone throws out all the fucking clocks in the house. Dave isn’t sure who did it - probably Taylor, drunk off his ass - but it makes sense. None of them are following a gruelling schedule the way they did whenever they were on tour. In the house, people wake up whenever they want, grab something out of the fridge, head down to the basement to start jamming and recording. At the end of the day, everyone heads outside for a cookout. It’s the most simple and relaxed routine Dave has ever allowed himself since he turned 18.

Of course, the overwhelming compulsion in Dave to control everything does rear its ugly head now and then, but he’s gotten better at reining it in, tamping it down. Taylor helps a lot; being laidback and easygoing is something that comes naturally to the dude, like breathing. Dave needs to learn from him.

Dave’s never met anyone else he’s gelled with so fast before, and he’s grateful for it. Taylor and Nate: there’s no one else Dave would rather be stuck with in a house for months on end. Well, there’s Adam too, of course. But the three of them are still the core, the nucleus that other people revolve around. “I’ve always wanted us to be like the fucking Police,” Taylor says, grinning like a six-year-old who thinks it’s the best idea he’s ever had. “Trios are meant to be, man.” 

“Smartass.” Dave playfully shoves Taylor’s head away as he cackles in glee, but he knows Taylor’s right. _Yeah, just like the fucking Police._

***

They start marking the passage of time not by hours, days, or weeks - but instead, by how many songs they’re working on at any given time. Dave doesn’t have a name for the album yet, so they’re calling it Untitled 3. The effort required for each song is also wildly unpredictable. For instance, ‘Breakout’ and ‘Aurora’ come together the easiest, almost fully formed upon their arrival. Yet for the others, everyone can’t seem to agree on the arrangements, like ‘Stacked Actors’ or ‘Learn to Fly’. With every intense discussion they have, Dave finds himself having to relinquish more and more control. It’s difficult because these songs are a part of him, and it’s like watching someone else manhandle your kids. But he knows the other guys are usually on the same page as him, especially Taylor. Taylor _gets_ him, gets how Dave would want the drums to be like, right down to the last fill.

However, things are still a little tenuous with Dave and Nate. Dave isn’t sure where Nate’s loyalties really lie anymore, or how much longer Nate can resist the siren call of Sunny Day Real Estate. It’s definitely unfair that Dave doesn’t possess this same uncertainty with Taylor. Alanis could offer Taylor ten million bucks to come back and drum for her, and Taylor would say no thanks and stay right here in Dave’s dinky little basement, where they had spent an entire day moving in second-hand equipment and tacking sleeping bags to the walls. Taylor would be there for him right to the end, no questions asked.

But Nate? Dave hates that he doesn’t know for sure, now.

Taylor likes to keep telling Dave to “chill a little” and stop being so neurotic, but Dave hasn’t lasted this long in the music business without a healthy dose of skepticism and paranoia. In fact, that’s why he bought this damn house in the first place, far from that vipers’ pit in LA. It definitely helps, getting away from all those phonies and slimy record execs with their $1,000 Zegna suits and their 10-megawatt smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes, the same ones who tell Dave to go be his own person and - without missing a beat - demand that he write a more ‘grungy’ record, whatever the hell that means.

Going back to Virginia was supposed to be their reset button, their fresh start. Ideally, Pat’s presence would have completed Dave’s perfect plan - but Dave has already come to terms with Pat taking off. It was Nate who scared the fuck out of him by wanting to leave, and even though Nate immediately called back the next morning to change his mind, Dave doesn’t quite think his heart will ever recover from that. He’s not sure how long he will go on pretending he isn’t terrified Nate is going to fuck off again the moment he gets a chance to. 

It doesn’t help that Dave one day overhears Nate and Taylor talking about him. On his way down to the basement one day, a cruel trick of acoustics allows Dave to hear Nate’s words floating up the stairwell: _“Good thing Dave doesn’t love playing bass, huh? Otherwise I’d be out on my ass too.”_

There’s more laughter amid Taylor’s defensive protests that Dave would never do that to Nate, but Dave still feels like someone has physically punched him in the solar plexus. Pat, Franz and William still haunt him in a way that only Krist understands - the unbearable heartbreak of loss. Dave remembers to breathe again when he hears Taylor’s repeated insistence that Dave is the best of guys, the best of musicians. It’s hard not to smile when he can hear Taylor ranting on and on about the innate goodness that Dave knows he doesn’t possess, and it makes it easier to continue down the stairs into 606 and act like everything is normal. Nate is not quite meeting his eyes, but Taylor’s grinning at him, blond hair fluffed in a sleepy, careless mess. 

God, Dave doesn’t even dare to think of what he will do if he ever loses Taylor.

***

The night is warm enough so they’re all out on the porch, passing around beers and the last of Nate’s weed. They’ve just grilled all the ribeyes in the fridge and eaten a shitload of food after locking down three songs for the day, so Dave is feeling pretty good. They wave goodbye to Adam, who’s heading home to his wife and kids. At this time of night it’s usually just the three of them, talking about everything and anything: how today’s recording went, the Lakers, the aftermath of Clinton’s impeachment. It’s a beautiful night, the moon glowing in the sky. Dave spots Taylor turning his face up to it with his eyes closed, like a cat basking in the sun.

“Shit, I’m out of smokes.” Nate gestures at Dave with his empty packet of Lucky Strikes. “You out too?”

Dave pats his pockets apologetically. “Looks like it. What about you, T?”

Taylor shakes his head, too lazy for anything requiring more than minimal movement. “We’re outta food too. This is the last of the beer.”

“Aw, fuck.” Nate stands up, stretching his spine with a wince. “I’ll head to Wegmans before they close. You guys need anything else?”

They yell out a laundry list of stuff they need as Nate nods wearily and heads to the car, yelling, “Got it!” before the door slams shut, followed by the loud revving of the engine. Once Nate is gone, Taylor takes another toke and gracefully unfolds his limbs to pass the rest of the joint to Dave, who shakes his head. Even after so long, Dave still can’t quite get over Taylor’s sporadic feats of dexterity, and he’s pretty sure Taylor can fold his fucking legs over his head in bed or something like that.

Not that he’s thought about it - too much.

“Hey, what’s up with you, man?” Taylor says unexpectedly, breaking the comfortable silence. He’s still staring up at the moon, though. “You’re being all quiet and shit.”

“No I’m not.” Dave is more surprised than defensive. “I didn’t-- what do you mean?”

“Like, you and Nate.” Taylor’s finally looking at him now, shifting a little closer on the fuck-ugly loveseat that Dave’s mom had insisted on gifting to them when they moved in. “You two okay?”

“Yeah, I-- yeah.” Now it’s Dave’s turn to stare up at the moon, a little troubled by Taylor’s straightforward stare. “It’s not, you know. Just some shit I gotta deal with.”

Taylor just lets the silence unspool, which Dave tries not too hard to read into. He knows Taylor and Franz were close, and that Taylor had taken it quite hard when they’d come to the unanimous decision to let Franz go. It hurt a little, knowing that some of Taylor’s loyalty had been parceled out to someone else.

Taylor eventually sighs, shifting over and moving his feet so that they’re balanced on Dave’s lap. “Nate doesn’t, y’know, regret anything,” he says quietly. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

Dave frowns. “How d’you know…” But he trails off with a sigh, because it’s a stupid question. If there’s anyone who always knows what he’s thinking, it’s Taylor.

“C’mon, the last few years have been rough,” Taylor says, stubbing out the joint and folding his arms over his head. “We’ve been through some real shit, and it’s all on display for everyone to see. You’re allowed to feel like shit, y’know. Isn’t that what setting up 606 is about?”

Here Dave has to smile. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Fuck yeah, it is.” Taylor drags himself closer, because the chill is finally starting to settle in and Dave can see the goosebumps on his arms. It’s the most natural thing in the world for Dave to wordlessly drape an arm around Taylor’s bony shoulders, the two of them sitting under the moon and thinking about everything they’ve been through. 

***

Nate’s still not back from the store. As nice as it is on the porch, Dave is starting to feel the bite of the cold through whatever poor protection his thin Motorhead t-shirt offers him. Taylor is visibly faring worse, shivering and rubbing his hands together, probably too used to balmy Californian spring weather. He moves to get to his feet, Dave feeling oddly bereft at the loss of body warmth. 

“You goin’ to bed already?” Dave asks, folding his suddenly-empty arms across his chest because he didn’t know what else to do with them.

“Maybe. Dunno, might try to catch some Letterman or something.” Taylor flashes him a sleepy smile before sketching a lazy salute at Dave. “Later.”

Dave can’t help frowning as Taylor shuffles into the house. Out of all of them, Taylor always keeps obscene hours, sleeping late and waking up even later. His favourite joke is that he’s still running on Californian time - three hours behind. So it’s really weird that Taylor is retiring to bed at--- fuck, Dave doesn’t even know the time because all the clocks are gone. But he knows something is off, that Taylor maybe doesn’t want to be around him right now for some reason Dave can’t fathom. It doesn’t make a difference that the logical part of Dave knows Taylor’s loyalty is unshakeable, ironclad. It’s the emotional part of him that’s irrationally afraid Taylor’s going to walk out of his life, like everyone else.

It’s that emotional, irrational part of Dave that gets him to his feet and marches him into the house and up the stairs, two doors to the left where Taylor’s bedroom is, right opposite his own. Dave raps smartly on the door before he can even grasp what he’s doing, but his heart sinks when the door remains stubbornly closed. 

He only has a few seconds to feel ridiculously lost before he hears the blare of the television in the den. _Of fucking course,_ the logical part of his brain scoffs at him. _Don’t be a fucking idiot, Grohl._

Downstairs, Taylor’s sprawled on the couch and watching something on MTV, his feet propped up on one end. However, he sits up when he spots Dave’s expression. “What?” he asks warily.

Dave doesn’t even know what he’s planning to say until the words stumble out of his mouth: “You’d tell me, right? If I was being, like, a fuckin’ dictator or something--”

Taylor sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat before he drops the remote. “So you heard what Nate said.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“You would, right?” Dave ploughs on insistently. At Taylor’s enquiring look, Dave repeats: “Tell me, that is. You’d fuckin’ tell me.”

Taylor almost looks insulted. “Of course I-- Fuck, Dave, I wouldn’t do that shit to you. What the hell do you take me for?”

“I just--” Dave fights to swallow his words before he says something he regrets. In a sickening instant he realises this isn’t really about the band anymore, and he’s a little stunned at how long it took him to come to this realisation. Now that he knows what this is really about, it’s plain as day to him why he’s so fucking terrified.

Taylor is still waiting, though. “You thought I was gonna take off, too?” He sounds a little sad.

“Fuck, no.” At this point Dave just has to plop onto the couch and reach over, gripping Taylor in a tight hug as though he’s trying to squeeze that sadness out of him. “No, I didn’t-- I would never, T. I wouldn’t.”

As trite as it sounds, it seems to work. Dave can feel the tension easing out of Taylor’s body as he relaxes in Dave’s arms. “Good.” Taylor pulls away a little, smiling that smile that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle. He’s looking at Dave with such fondness and affection that it’s the most natural thing in the world for Dave to lean in, their noses brushing before he steals a kiss from Taylor’s slack mouth, pausing at Taylor’s surprised huff of breath.

Dave's still hesitating, his heart hammering in his chest a mile a minute, not quite daring to meet Taylor’s eyes. Again he’s not sure how long they remain locked in this tableau, but it feels like forever. He waits for Taylor to move, to push him aside and shake his head sadly.

Instead Taylor is the one to lean in this time, his warm palm cradling Dave’s face before their mouths meet again, hungrier and more urgent. Taylor’s smiling into their kiss, their foreheads bumping together and eliciting an ‘oww’ from Dave. “Ass,” Taylor mutters with a fond smile.

As a retort, Dave shoves him down onto the couch and pins his bony wrists down, so that a laughing Taylor has no choice but to let Dave attack his neck with long, wet kisses that turn his chuckles into breathless, needy moans. Dave can feel Taylor playfully fighting against his makeshift restraints, which just makes Dave tighten his grip more and pin Taylor down to the couch even harder. _Mine_ , was all he could think. And okay, yeah, maybe people had a point about calling him a control freak.

Although Taylor can’t move his hands, that barely stops the rest of him from wriggling about and doing his best to entangle the both of them together, his legs parting to ensnare Dave’s hips like he wants to be equally sure Dave’s going nowhere too. Taylor can be bossy in the recording studio, arguing with Dave about whether to use the floor tom or to adjust the tightness of the snare. So it doesn’t surprise Dave that Taylor is not going to let Dave take what he wants without playful resistance. Taylor slips an arm out and uses it to grip Dave’s hair in a tight pull, a flare of pain lacing through Dave’s pleasure. Both of them are chuckling and panting, wrestling in a bid to flip each other over.

The sound of the door swinging open and Nate yelling hello makes them fly part instantly, Dave jumping off Taylor who quickly straightens his ruffled hair. “Fuck,” Dave mumbles, adjusting himself in his khakis before catching Taylor’s hot, hungry gaze which crumbles his resolve all over again. “Upstairs?”

“Upstairs,” Taylor agrees instantly, seizing the nearest cushion to hide his own tented pants.

Dave barrels out of the den past a confused Nate in the living room, who is laden with several paper bags while kicking the door closed. “Where were you guys-- hey, none of you assholes gonna help me with this stuff?”

***

Long after a grumbling Nate has gone to bed, Dave lies in his own bedroom, still in disbelief that he actually had his hands on Taylor a couple of hours ago. He feels electrified, like someone has replaced all the blood in his body with adrenaline. His face is still raw from Taylor’s stubble burn, and Dave feels no shame at all for wanting to feel it on the rest of his body.

It feels like he’s been waiting forever, and again he can’t quite tell what time it is. He reaches for the bottle of JD on his bedside table to calm his nerves, but it’s sadly empty so he turns to his acoustic guitar, which does the same trick.

He’s in the middle of playing something weird with a mournful twang when the doorknob rattles. Putting aside the guitar, Dave is up on his feet before Taylor pokes his shaggy head in. “Coast clear?”

Dave couldn’t help an eyeroll. “You think? It’s not like Nate’s stuffed down my pants.”

Taylor’s grin turns sly. “No, but I’d like to be.”

“Seriously, Hawkins?” Dave is silenced by Taylor lunging forward for a kiss, hands roaming under Dave’s t-shirt and making him forget entirely what he was saying. Taylor backs him towards the bed and-- okay, apparently it’s Dave’s turn to be pinned down and he’s pretty okay with that reversal, because it’s Taylor and Dave is safe in his hands.

They move fast now, all hesitancy gone after all their pressing questions were burned away in the den earlier. Dave lets Taylor manhandle him, lets him whip off the Motorhead t-shirt and shuck his khakis in a hungry way that makes Dave feel like the only person Taylor has ever wanted. He's more than happy to let Taylor strip him naked, those intense eyes roaming all over Dave’s body and cataloging tattoos, bruises, scars.

Dave knows he should feel vulnerable, but Taylor’s smiling down at him in a teasing, affectionate way that makes Dave realise he’s not alone in this. He makes Taylor shimmy out of his clothes as well, both of them groaning in pleasure with the sensation of skin against skin. 

Again Taylor takes control first, wrapping a callused hand around Dave’s dick, their kisses burning and their bodies moving together in that same rhythm that their minds shared. Dave lets out a stuttered groan, burying his face in Taylor’s neck and nipping at it with gentle bites just to hear Taylor cry out his name.

Taylor’s always been good with his hands, so when he starts stroking Dave in earnest and moves his hand in a clever twist, Dave moans into Taylor’s neck as he spurts all over Taylor’s hand and flat belly, white stripes painted across tanned golden skin. Taylor, grinning like a maniac, takes this as permission to pin Dave down and rut against his hip in earnest, and Dave tries to go lax for him, give him something slick to move against. Taylor comes with a shocked gasp when Dave yanks at his ruffled hair, sinking his fingers into that blond mess so he can hold Taylor’s face close, watching the minutest change of his facial expressions. He doesn’t think he will ever forget the way Taylor’s face goes slack with bliss, his eyes lidded with unbearable fondness as he sleepily headbutts Dave.

They lie in bed as they catch their breath, Dave shifting his foot to crank open the window a little. A rush of cold air cools the sweat on his legs. “Better now?” Taylor asks with a yawn, tracing the outline of one of Dave’s tattoos.

“I wasn’t aware I needed healing,” Dave mutters, playfully nudging Taylor’s calf with his foot. 

“Your dumbass never knows what it needs,” Taylor says, kicking back with a grin.

"Just fuckin' shut up already." Dave is aware that he's smiling like a lunatic, but he really can't help it. He loops an arm over Taylor's shoulders, pulling him close so that leaving is the last thing that would ever occur to him.


End file.
